The Melting Dead E-Book

Doug Lamoreux

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Everything they grab burns.

Everyone they touch dies.

Everything they kill comes back from the dead.

A secluded Mississippi River island is the perfect vacation getaway - until the space rocks land. A family is killed by searing radiation. The same cosmic force returns Dad, sis, and the two boys from the grave.

But they're deteriorating quickly; melting away. And they want your flesh.

Oh, look. Here come the tourists.

A B-movie between book covers, The Melting Dead is a roller-coaster ride that will burst your heart with fear and make your sides ache with laughter.

Leseprobe

The Melting Dead

Doug Lamoreux

Copyright (C) 2013 Doug Lamoreux

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgments

Jenny McDonnell – Nothing works without Jenny; my island in the storm.

Mitch Lamoreux – For his expert knowledge of the Mississippi River and his valued opinion.

All the horror fans that “get” it.

The writers of all the film horrors from Georges Méliès to the present.

One

At the risk of being crude, Angela looked as if she'd been yanked through a knothole. Her eyes swam in pink puffs of flesh, tears streaked her cheeks, a smudge marred her jaw. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes filthy, torn, blood spattered, and burned in spots. Yes, burned. She was running like she'd never run before. Uphill through the woods, out of breath, aching in every muscle, running on her last ounce of strength. She hadn't a step left in her, still she ran on, gasping, shooting terrified glances into the darkness behind.

As she ran, she failed to hear any of the normal sounds of night. No nocturnal animals scampering in the brush, no creatures slithering in the grass, nothing flitting past on night wings. Not even crickets. Nothing but her gasps, her footfalls – and the unearthly sounds of the thing chasing her. The leaves crunched and branches snapped to its uneven step as it, whatever it was, pounded the path behind. Its occluded breath, growing louder, drawing nearer, threatened Angela like an opening theme from a horror flick, Suite for String Orchestra, Tubular Bells, Malcolm is Dead; music to scream by, music to die by. Its throaty panting gave way to a guttural howl. The thing was hot on her heels and closing.

All seemed lost… when the dawn arrived.

Angela experienced a rush of hope as brilliant rays of orange, white, and gold burst through the trees. But that hope was fleeting. The cavalry had not arrived in time. It wasn't the light of salvation. Rather, it was the dawn of the dead. It cast long shadows through the woods while, at the same time, ominously lighting a clearing ahead like a spotlight on a stage. Lights up, she was afraid, on the final act in the theater of blood. Angela had no choice. She left the path, crossed the clearing in eight panicked strides then, gasping in terror and exhaustion, pulled up with no more room to run.

“No!”

She caught her balance at the brink of a sheer rock cliff. She swallowed hard and gaped over the edge taking in the hundred foot drop to a surging river below. Her mind reeled. Her stomach rolled. She took an involuntary step back. Her cognitive senses took an instant to catch up. She was trapped.

She turned to stare back across the clearing to the woods on the downhill side. She dropped her arms to her sides, flexed her fists, and fought to master her breathing. Was she afraid? YES! Still… If it was the end, she decided then and there, let it come. She was Angela Roskowic, wasn't she? Her old man's kid? She'd meet this like she met every challenge in life – head on.

The morning breeze chilled, blew through her hair and torn clothes, brushed her beads of sweat, turning her skin to goose-flesh, and sending a shudder through her small athletic frame. Behind her, Angela heard the water surging below. At the timber line, before her, she heard the snap of twigs and crunch of leaves heralding the arrival of her pursuer.

The thing broke through the trees.

Angela screamed – and bolted upright in bed. Just like the heroines did in the old horror movies she loved so much. She eyed her surroundings in the gloom and, finally, recognized them; her own bed, in her own room, in her own apartment. Angela caught her breath. It had only been a nightmare. The nightmare… again. For the fourth night in a row. Four times the growling thing had chased her through the woods and to the brink. Four times she'd found herself trapped and facing death. Four times she'd screamed herself awake.

She'd been a mess in the dream and, no doubt, looked worse now it had passed. Angela sat drenched, her too-big flannel night shirt clinging with sweat, her hair matted, her breath coming in pants, and a rivulet of saliva escaping the side of her mouth. Ugh, pretty. She wiped her chin with her shirt-sleeve and collapsed back on the damp pillow.

Like most actresses, most directors, most people of the theater, Angela was a night person, not much good in the day. Facing the normal world was challenge enough. Now, with her nights being ruined by crazy dreams… Ugh! Who needed it? She lay there, slowing her breathing, blanking her mind, willing her muscles to relax. She looked at the bedside clock and groaned with relish. “Whatever you do,” she told herself aloud, “don't fall asleep again. It's time to make the doughnuts.”

To heck with nightmares. She had places to be, people to see. If she didn't get going, Angela knew, the day would wind up one big trip through hell.

Four hours later, following a shower, toaster pastry with sprinkles, and a few last minute chores at the theater (she'd procrastinated the day before), with a cup of espresso driving away the remnants of her nightmare and her comfy-as-an-old-shoe Maverick driving away the last of the two hundred miles from The Windy City, Angela motored through Savanna, a sleepy northwest Illinois town on the east bank of the Mississippi. If she'd read the map right, she had nearly reached her destination.

One of the great thought-thinkers at the last meeting of their Chicagoland Directors' Guild, to the question of where their next convention ought be held, had boldly suggested a retreat into the wilds beyond the city. A “get away and play” as he called it. Of course, with the exception of a film shoot in South Bend, he'd never been more than five miles from the heart of the Loop. Someone else would have to arrange the affair. Angela as, one, the committee's recording secretary and, two, the only member not at the meeting, was nominated and immediately elected. She had no more experience with nature than the others, but that would teach her to miss meetings.

That was five days ago. Four fruitless days of rehearsal followed, with a guest director that made Scrooge look open-minded and amiable, with a cast of young performers straight out of Village of the Damned. Each one followed by a night of rotten sleep and the recurring nightmare. Four nights of being chased in a senseless dream. And it was senseless. What dream, after all, could be more hair-raising than the frightening world of the theater? Moreover, Angela was a horror film nut. Monsters didn't scare her, she found them a blast. She was gaga for all things Gothic. So why was she having a nightmare? Why a nightmare set in the woods? She wasn't afraid of the woods, she just wanted nothing to do with them. She was a Chicago girl, born and bred, and didn't go anywhere without plumbing. And why the dark faceless thing on her heels? Chi-town was full of things willing and eager to chase you. You didn't need a walk in the woods for that. But what needled Angela most about the dream was her own ravaged condition. The torn clothes were nonsense; she pitied the guy ever laid a hand on her without the okey-dokey. Likewise her dreamed exhaustion was patently ridiculous. When she wasn't in a show, staging a show, or catching a fright flick, Angela kept fit by running marathons. (The personal challenges of the sport gave her a rush.) She may have needed tip-toes to peek over a five foot wall, but she could jump one with no trouble. It would take a heck of a run to wear her out so completely. The dream made no sense.

Anyway, the nightmare was behind her and the trip from the city. The reason for the trip could now occupy her mind; the mission foisted upon her to scout the sticks for a retreat venue. But she may as well have been on a journey to the far side of the sun. Outside of her comfort zone, she cruised through Savanna feeling as if she'd entered the creepy small town territory of Salem's Lot or maybe Let's Scare Jessica to Death. The sidewalks at that early hour were virtually empty. The few gaunt figures out and about silently followed her progress down the street with the deliberate stares of Stepford wives. She'd freely admit she wasn't being fair to the locals but couldn't help feeling what she felt. In Chicago, a million people might pass by but none paid you any mind. But in that tiny river town… It wasn't that Angela minded attention, she just preferred to be on stage playing somebody else when it came.

At the hard curve in the middle of town, between the Lutheran Church and the Fire Station, Angela passed a sign reading 'Marina'. In a phone call three days earlier, she'd been told specifically to pass the sign, and the marina, by an insistent and gabby Park District big shot and to keep heading north. She drove through two traffic lights, in total, and found herself already heading out of town. Gorgeous rock bluffs with sheer cliffs, not unlike the one in her dream, the Palisades according to her map, imposed to the right of the highway. Then, thankfully, on the left appeared the sign she had been directed to look for. Despite the fact it made no sense at all, she turned left onto Marina Road (which she now knew didn't lead to the marina), crossed a series of railroad tracks, and eased into the gravel lot of something called Miller's Landing.

Ahead, for as far as she could see to the left and to the right, surged a gray-green superhighway of water, the great Mississippi River. Angela had arrived.

In one way, Angela soon discovered, the boonies, like the city, were governed by the maxim 'Hurry up and wait'. She'd forced herself from bed, escaped the city madness, nursed the old Maverick across the state, and arrived safely, only to find the door locked and the landing office vacant. She looked out over bobbing boats, wooden piers, and beyond the concrete incline to the water (for the launching of boats, she imagined), considering her options. Someone named Arthur should have been waiting to give her a boat ride. There wasn't a soul about. How, she wondered, would she get to the island?

An island retreat; that's what she was getting the Chicagoland directors into.

Prior to that moment, the nearest Angela had been to the Mississippi was a four-week run of Show Boat in summer stock. Now, finally, she saw the river for real and saw it come to life. The birds were everywhere, big black and white birds that looked like pelicans and majestic birds that were certainly eagles (though she didn't know Gold from Bald), soaring passed each other overhead. On the rocks beside and beneath the dock, frogs croaked, snakes hissed, and all around the hidden things in nature leaped and slithered and made their presence known. She couldn't see the fat daddy cats and walleye hanging low along the shoreline, but they were there. She could hear the big mouth bass break the surface with a splash and, though Angela knew only that they were fish, she wondered if they weren't giving the fin to the few anglers visible up and down the way. The rapid river current slapped the rip-rap on both the Illinois and Iowa shores. (That was Iowa over there, wasn't it?) Barges, flat, rusting metal monsters asleep at anchor, waited for the day's work to begin. It was all quite amazing. But one look told her that, while Old Man River might jes' keep rollin' along, he was too wide-awake, wide, long, fast, and cold for her to swim. As in her nightmare, Angela was trapped and had no choice. She would have to wait and hope Arthur and his boat put in an appearance.

Resigned, committed, and with her mind now free, Angela heard music. From radios and receivers in boats and barges up and down the water, as the station identification of a local radio show danced on the Mississippi valley air. “W-O-M-R. Old man river ra-di-o!” She heard the sprightly jingle from at least one of the cars, or trucks, or campers in the parking lot; had probably been hearing the broadcast all along but had blocked it out. Who listens to commercials after all? Now she heard it plainly, the first sign of civilized life the city girl recognized that morning.

As the song died, there boomed the gravelly voice of a female radio host. “Yes, it is, moms and dads, boys and girls…” Three packs a day, Angela guessed. “This is your charming and delightful, ol' Aunt Sal. And right over there, shoving another cinnamon bun in his pie hole, is my sidekick, little runny-nosed Eddie. Hi, Eddie!”

“Hey, Aunt Sal,” came the laughing reply, over the air, from the depths of their studio.

Sal Cartwright, Savanna's most famous radio dee jay, didn't just sound like a frog, she looked like one and had, sitting in her WOMR radio seat, since the training wheels came off Caesar's chariot. Eddie Lanfair, her co-host, his headphone cord stretched to its limit, his mouth jammed with pastry beside the snack wagon across the studio, had been with her for half that time.

“On this beautiful morning,” Aunt Sal croaked, moving the flexed microphone arm above her desk closer to her mouth, “we need to start off with a warning.”

Choking down a sticky bite, licking his fingers, Eddie raced back to his seat and told his mic, “Say, sounds serious, Sal.”

“Whoa. Easy on the alliteration, Eddie, you'll hurt yourself. But, yes, a warning. We want to inform our faithful listeners that the south end of Mississippi pool thirteen will be closed today.”

“What?!” Eddie asked in mock surprise.

“That's right, Little Eddie,” Aunt Sal said, scanning the news release in her hand. She rattled the paper in front of her microphone for effect. “Says right here… No lock and dam traffic due to dredging below the Rock Island.”

“The river never closes, Aunt Sal!”

“It does today, you lying little rat. Pool thirteen is open for recreation, the Bellevue lock and dam is operating as usual, and the river is open for commerce to the north, but don't travel south today because there's nowhere to go past the island. And the Clinton lock and dam is closed to traffic.”

Eddie grabbed his kazoo and blew a wheezy sigh.

“Yes,” Sal agreed, picking up another sheet. “…it's sad. But here's a story from the NP news wire to cheer you up.”

“Oh, boy, what is it?”

“Well, Eddie, it appears we get a meteor shower this morning.”

“Hey, a fire in the sky, that's cool!”

“Oh, wait, wait. No, it isn't. Says here… we probably won't see it.”

Eddie blew his kazoo again.

“Yes, sad,” Sal agreed. “Meteors strike the earth all the time, the experts say, but their spectacular night time displays are apparently a dud in the daylight– What's that?” Interrupted, Sal looked up and through the four-by-eight sound-proofed glass separating her and Eddie, in the booth, from the control room engineer on the other side. “I'm being corrected over my head phones. Erwin, the super genius MIT grad who's running the sound board in this broken down Savanna radio station, is correcting me. He says, they're not meteors if they strike the earth. Just a second.” She laid a hand to the headset cupping her ear. Erwin's lips moved behind the glass. “Okay, great. You can go back to sleep, Erwin. All right, folks, here's the facts.”

“The 411?” Eddie chimed in.

“Don't be hip, Little Eddie. I'm giving our good listeners the scoop on meteors and you're making an asteroid of yourself.”

“Sorry.”

“Yes, you are. But back to the subject. If these flying space objects hit us, meaning planet earth…”

“The big blue marble?”

Sal glared daggers. Eddie wilted and she continued. “If they hit, the objects are meteorites. But that's rare. Meteoroids, that's what they're called in space; meteoroids usually burn up in our atmosphere.”

“My rhoids are always on fire.”

“Can it, squirrel!”

Eddie cut into his own laughter, suddenly confused. “Well, wait. Then, what's a meteor?”

“A meteor is– Shut up, Erwin, I got this. The fiery tail trailing the meteoroid is the meteor.”

“Really?” Eddie asked. “That's so confusing.”

“Only to you. These burning space rocks are something to see at night, so they say. But on a bright morning like today, not so much.”

“Wow,” Eddie said without excitement. “So, if we aren't going to see it, why the hell are we talking about it?”

“Oops,” Sal said, feigning concern. “Put a quarter in the potty mouth jar, Little Eddie!”

“What? Just for saying 'hell'?”

“Yes, siree, Bob. Go ahead and hit her twice for repeating it, you blockhead!”

Sal and Eddie had listeners from Dubuque, Iowa to Moline, Illinois, both sides of the river, and boats in-between. But four individuals in particular were ignorant of that morning's broadcast. Those four, occupants of a battered Econoline van pulling into the Bait and Switch Gas Station and Convenience Store on the north end of the one-blink-and-you-miss-it town of Sabula, Iowa, were assaulting their senses with the Ramones' frenetic Beat on the Brat. The van jerked to a stop by the outside pumps. In the vehicle, a hand slipped between the seats to poke the CD player into silence. The radio took over and Aunt Sal continued whooping on Little Eddie in dulcet tones of dumped gravel. “…while you pay up, you little freak.” Two coins tinked atop a pile of change (presumably in a glass jar) and Sal spoke again. “There you go, Toilet Tongue. Now that's done… On behalf of our sponsors, Pool 13 Pools and Crappy's Tattoo Parlor and Bar, I get to tell the listeners we're looking at rain this afternoon and more rain tonight. But, for now, it's a fine Saturday morning on the quiet Mississippi.”

The red head behind the steering wheel, startling not only for her gorgeous hair but for her ghost-white skin and the ring in her nose, poked the power button and put the radio out of their misery. Her name was Norene and, of the four, she looked the most like a human being. But she was desperately nervous and couldn't stand anymore noise. The others, Dex, her boyfriend, cracking his knuckles and breathing deep in the passenger seat, Gar, their leader, and Falcon, Gar's girl, locking and loading handguns in the back, were replete in their ghastliness in frightfully dyed hair, black leather, severe makeup, tattoos, and piercings; Goth nightmares all. And all four as nervous as cats.

“Leave it run and be ready,” Gar told Norene. The lizard's eye contact in his left eye, and his rooster foot necklace, unsettled her. She nodded and looked away. Gar turned to the others. “Everyone stay cool. Don't go shopping. Keep to the plan and this will be child's play.” Falcon and Dex both nodded. “Let's do it.” Gar shoved the van's side door open and he and Falcon hit the ground running. Dex slipped from the front, between the seats, and followed hot on their heels.

“Y'all be careful,” Norene called in the sweetest little southern fried accent. Like children released to play, they raced across the lot in a mad parade.

Dex overtook them, reached the store first, jerked the door open to a welcoming chime, and held it. Gar and Falcon, brandishing their weapons, hurried in. From the van, Norene heard Gar shout, “Get 'em up.” Then Dex disappeared inside too.

Two

Believe it or not, when the bandits first hit the store Billy Pratt, the cashier, was more frightened of their makeup and clothes than he was of their guns. He'd been robbed before with weapons ranging, swear to God, from a ball bat to a chainsaw. He'd seen plenty of guns but he'd never seen anything like these people. Freaks, that's what they were. Society discards pouring through the door, waving pistols. Billy didn't mess with freaks.

“Fill it,” Falcon shouted, throwing an empty linen bag at him. “And don't fuck around.”

Leather, tats, piercings, and paint, the woman meant business. At least Billy thought it was a female; some kind of jungle woman or cycle slut. Billy didn't know much, but he knew when to do as he was told. He tapped a key on the cash register, ding, and the drawer slid open.

Dex circled round the counter and pushed past him. 'Course, Billy didn't know the fella's name. All he knew was the guy was a big African-American (the others looked white) in leather, with spikes at his collar and wrists, and he was no stranger to a gymnasium weight room. The fella didn't say 'Boo', just started cherry-picking off the shelves; cartons of cigarettes, boxes of cigars, bottles of whiskey, and one of vodka. (Billy didn't know, but vodka made Norene horny.) The loot disappeared into Dex's bag as fast as he could snatch it.

Falcon jumped the counter sending Shrine Circus coupons, the contents of a 'Need a penny, Take a penny' tray, and impulse buys from condoms to caramels flying into the air. She landed on her feet on the other side, crunching the rain of peanuts, key chains, and miniature Horoscope booklets beneath her heavy jump boots. She snapped open her own bag and grabbed one of the lottery displays. With no time for unraveling the tickets, she took the whole plastic carousel.

“You little punks!”

The shout, from the back of the store, startled them all. They looked up to see a tubby 50-something man charging from the store room, down the gum and breath mint aisle, with a Louisville slugger over his shoulder. This was Ferenc Blasko, the store's owner, and Lord was he mad. Gar, standing lookout in case of such an emergency (as Falcon saw it), loitering uselessly by the Zingers (in Dex's opinion) saw Blasko coming, without being seen. Gar used the butt of his gun to smash the old boy and send him reeling into an endcap display. Blasko hit the floor in a hail of antacid tablets and beef jerky.

Dex sped up his activities. Falcon paused in her thieving to enjoy the heady violence. She threw Gar a smile of twisted glee then, riding her adrenaline wave, turned back on Billy and jammed her gun in his nose. “Let's go!” Falcon relished the fear in the cashier's eyes and celebrated by wagging her split tongue in his terrorized face.

“Let's go.”

It was the same phrase, muttered at the same time, by a different person in another setting. The mutterer, Professor Paul Regas, stood alone recalling a recent conversation and growing annoyed.

“Come on, man. Let's go.” That's what Malcolm, eh, Dr. Richard Malcolm had said. His colleague, a lit prof at the same college Paul taught Geology (the small l and capital G were how Paul thought of each), had been insistent. “Come on. You said you'd teach me to rappel. Let me steal a few days of your vacation. Let's go.” So the getaway was set. They would make a weekend of it, bosom pals, rock climbing in the wilds; first the Mississippi Palisades and then on to the Rock Island.

Paul shook his head, knowing he should have known. Vacations never worked out and this one was holding true to form. Like a nincompoop, he'd waited all Friday, yesterday, on the bluff overlooking the Palisades and river valley (and later, below the sheer cliffs) for his fellow professor to put in an appearance. But Malcolm, probably helping a leggy undergrad with her homework, had failed to show. As you do not rappel alone, the day was wasted. In the evening, Paul caught a boat for the Rock, their next scheduled destination, telling himself they'd merely had a miscommunication.

Rock Island Park, officially, had yet to open for the season but the caretakers, an old couple named Aaron, and the park superintendent, a talkative Mr. Towers, received him cordially and let him stay. Made him comfortable, in fact. He'd had a restful night's sleep and rose with the sun to find Malcolm still a no-show. Now Paul greeted the morning, outside of the facility's big community house, a stone's throw from the central fire ring, wondering why he'd agreed to the excursion? Wondering what to do about it now? But the cloud hanging over the outing had a silver lining, the rock cliff (from which the island got its name) was there, he was there, and the river valley was lovely, even for college professors soured on adventure. Paul looked to his gear, two rope bags and a duffel piled on a picnic table, and sighed. With nothing to do but wait, he might as well double-check the gear and hope for Malcolm. Paul grabbed the duffel but, before he could unzip it, was interrupted.

Harry Towers, the park super, led a man in clerical garb from the main building and off the porch. Paul had caught a glimpse of them earlier, from a distance, when they'd arrived with the caretakers. (Where the Aarons had gotten too, the professor hadn't a clue.) The man of God was tall, thin, with wispy gray hair, a white dog collar, a suit in Johnny Cash's color scheme, and a wide smile; Barry Fitzgerald without the crust, Paul guessed. It was a guess. The professor patronized neither the cinema nor the hallowed halls of organized religion. Towers looked exactly as he had the previous night, short of height, pink of face, red of nose, with a middle mound keeping his feet a secret from him. He had a tendency to talk incessantly and was even then. The religious leader followed, smiling patiently, trying unsuccessfully to work a word in edge-wise.

“I'm certain, Father Snow, your young people will have a terrific time here on the island.”

“I'm sure they will–”

“Kids always do when they put their minds to it, eh, Father?”

“Please, Superintendent, it's Reverend, not Father. I'm–”

“Then, come to think, you probably wouldn't know about kids, I suppose, being a priest and all?”

Paul grimaced, embarrassed for Towers. The fat fool was talking so much and so fast he couldn't hear himself being offensive. Reverend Snow was not a priest, he was a minister; a horse of a different color. Paul wasn't a church-goer but he wasn't an idiot either.

Towers, chattering like a crazed magpie, having missed the one sentence the poor guy had gotten out, was off to the races again. “I've got a young woman coming, she should–” Towers interrupted himself to look at his watch. “She should be here. Organizing a reunion, or a team get together, or something. I don't remember if it was a high school or college, she may have said. Well, it makes no difference. I think our island park will fit her group admirably. I mean as well, I expect, as it will fit yours.”

The reverend attempted a reply but Towers cut him off. “We'll tour the trails now and she'll soon be here. Oh, she is late. But she'll be here soon, I'm sure. We can tour the buildings together? Our trails are gorgeous this time of year. But, just between us, you wouldn't want to be lost here near dark.”

Towers spotted Paul, exclaimed excitedly, then steered the reverend towards him. “Good morning, Paul. Uh, Father Snow, let me introduce you. Dr. Paul Regas.”

“Reverend,” Snow corrected, reaching for Paul's hand.

“Professor,” Paul corrected in return, giving it a shake.

Towers hadn't heard either. “Not a medical doctor, I think,” Towers corrected himself, incorrectly. “A scientist of some sort… looking over our facilities before we're actually open for the season. We do try to accommodate when we're able. Paul, Father Snow is touring the park in anticipation of some church function or other.”

Paul and the reverend shared muted smiles, brothers in suffering. The minister turned to the park official and tried to speak, but Towers cut him off.

“It just occurred to me I may have given you the wrong impression,” the superintendent said. “Paul doesn't work here, he's one of our visitors. The park wouldn't have any use for an archeologist, would we? Well, I've another group organizer coming, I don't know if I mentioned her or not, some sort of teacher or other. We'd better get a move on. I'll give you a quick peek at our trails.” Towers started away with the minister, tossing an, “Enjoy yourself, Paul,” over his shoulder. Yakking, he disappeared with the reverend past the old barn theater and down one of the marked trails.

Bemused, if not amused, Paul watched them go. When they had vanished into the trees, he shook his head and returned to his gear. “Nice talking to you, reverend,” Paul muttered aloud. “No, I'm not a doctor. No, not an archeologist either, I'm a geologist. Mr. Towers? Yes, he is a babbling idiot.”

Dex, Falcon, and Gar raced from the store, their arms loaded with bags of loot and bottles of booze. They piled through the side door of the waiting van. Falcon head-butted Dex. Gar landed atop Falcon and pulled the door closed, shouting, “Go! Go! Go!”

At the wheel, Norene panicked. She tromped the gas pedal and slammed the transmission into drive. The engine revved, the tires shrieked, and the van lurched. What happened next seems impossible. It happened all the same. The van hit a collection of pallets leaning against a display of bagged fertilizer. It rode the lead pallet like a ramp and, to Norene's horror and shocked exclamations from those in the rear, flipped the van with a crunch like a movie stunt car onto its passenger side.

Billy ran from the store, his mouth a wide O, adjusting his glasses to gape. “Ho-ly Moses!”

Torn bags of horse manure littered the pavement, A pungent aroma filled the air. The van shook on its side while disgusted shouts, screams, and unintelligible grumbles escaped through the driver's side – now the top – window. Norene's feet (she'd fallen into the passenger seat), were visible through the sideways cracked windshield. No one else could be seen at all. The rear door fell open. Gar climbed from the wreck, slipped on the brown skating rink they'd created, and nearly fell. He caught the door, grimaced with repulsion at the smell, waved his gun at the cashier and shouted. “Get back!”

No hero, Billy retreated into the store as fast as his legs would carry him.

The driver's side window shattered and Falcon, using Norene, the seats, and the steering wheel as steps, pushed herself up and out. The van rocked. She swore, lost her balance, and half-jumped, half-fell off the door onto the wrecked display. Ankle deep in broken fertilizer bags, shaking with rage, she let fly with an aria of profanity.

As it was hardly the first time she'd been stepped on in life, Norene quickly recovered from her trampling. She found her knees and crawled into the back of the van while, outside, Gar was yelling to her and Dex. “Grab the stuff and get the hell out.”

Blasko, the store's owner, sporting a knot on his forehead, appeared at the door. Gar saw him and pointed his gun. The storefront window beside the old man exploded. Glass flew. Signs highlighting the deals of the day shredded and fell. Windshield fluid deluged the floor and sidewalk on both sides of the frame. The 'OPEN' sign was closed for good. Blasko hollered, threw up his hands, and disappeared back inside.

But Gar hadn't fired. Stunned, the gang leader turned to see his old lady, now on the ground beside the van, waving her smoking gun. “Falcon!” he yelled. “I told you, no shooting.”

“Did you tell the southern belle not to smash up the van?”

“Baby–”

“Piss on that, Gar,” she growled, waving at the muck on her boots and leathers. “I may or may not be full of shit, but I'm not getting caught covered in it!”

“I know, dearheart, but try to maintain. No shooting, if we can help it.” He goggled at the shot out window and demolished storefront then turned, putting it behind him. He yelled to the van. “Come on, you two. We haven't got all day.”

Dex staggered out, limping, a bag of loot in his left hand, the palm of his right pressed against his forehead. A red stream of blood ran from beneath his hand, around his eye, and dripped on his jacket. Norene followed him out, crying, “Dex, ya' aw-right?” He ignored her, letting Gar help him through the pool of horse manure.

Falcon brushed past them back into the van. She cursed, to the sound of breaking glass, then stuck her head out. “Get your asses back here and help me.” She disappeared again.

Inside, Falcon collected the surviving loot, scattered to all corners of the compartment, shoved it back into bags, and the bags to the open rear escape. When Norene showed her face at the window, Falcon all but exploded. She grabbed the neck of a shattered whiskey bottle and wagged it at the red head, screaming, “I ought to use this on you.” Norene cried in desperate apology.

“Falcon,” Gar shouted in. “We don't have time for this. Let's go!”

Silently promising to smack the worthless bitch later, Falcon threw sacks of lottery tickets and cigarettes at Norene. “Take these. Do something right for once.”

Loaded down, the Goth thieves left the wrecked van and the lot on foot.

Sabula, the 'Island City', was a sliver on the world separated from Iowa by Sabula Lake and from Illinois by the Mississippi River. The town was nine blocks long and four wide, discounting both the two mile elevated road leading in from the north bridge and the south marina. The Bait and Switch sat on the north end of town, on Highway 52, the east-west causeway north of the lake, connecting the town with the landlubbers of Iowa proper.

Trailing broken glass, dripping fertilizer, and (here and there) spots of blood, Gar shouldered the limping Dex down the middle of Broad Street and away from the wildly rearranged convenience store. The girls, their arms loaded with loot, followed after.

Three

For all the excitement elsewhere around the river valley, there was none at Miller's Landing and nothing on the horizon. The landing supervisor had finally arrived and opened his office. Angela had expected, unfairly she admitted, a sinister banjo player with bad dental work, but couldn't have been more wrong. He was a perfectly normal, if quiet man, willing to help but not really able. He had no clue where her river taxi was. His call to the island, on her behalf, had gone unanswered. He offered to rent her a boat if she wanted but Angela, aware she was no Tippi Hedren, decided against it.

Alone on the pier, there was little to do but pace and look around. She'd given up worrying about missing her island tour. What would that accomplish? It was the fault of her hosts, if she remembered her instructions, and Angela was certain she had. They said they'd send a boat. Instead, to pass the time, she gave in to her inner nerd and started mental pushups, taking in her surroundings and, with imagination, deciding which horror films they placed her in. The novice would have ogled the docks and simply named the biggie, Jaws, and its sequels. (Jaws III, set in a Sea World knock-off, didn't count.) And the rip-offs, Barracuda, Tintorera, Tenticles. Each the same movie, in an ocean setting. By adding a boat landing on a river, it got tougher. Piranha, Humanoids From the Deep.

Speaking of rivers… Angela paused for a look, saw nothing resembling a boat heading her way, and exclaimed out loud, “Poop.”

She returned to her game, adding an island destination. Piranhaconda. “Meh, try harder.” The Island of the Doomed. “There you go.” Was Cameron Mitchell waiting downriver, she wondered, with his blood-thirsty tree? The Island of the Alive? The Island of Lost Souls?

“Are we not men?” Angela asked the sky, mimicking the last film's Keeper of the Law. Then she looked about in sudden embarrassment, hoping she hadn't been heard. “Are we not foolish?” she asked under her breath. “Are we not completely bored?”

The river current rocked the moored boats, the boats thumped the pier, and Angela sighed. She wandered the dock, waiting, alone.

From a bird's eye view, perhaps one of the many pelicans or soaring eagles, the Rock Island looked like a bowling pin designed by Picasso or Dali. It sat on angle in the river channel three-quarters of the way south in pool thirteen. On its north end, near the top of the pin's head, was the park campground where Paul Regas readied his gear. It featured a community building with meeting hall and second floor dormitory, an attached nature museum highlighting the flora, fauna, and fun of the great outdoors, an old refurbished barn with activity center and theater, and the usual outside accoutrement one found at a camp. Southwest of the campus, downriver on the island above the pin's neck, was a mountainous rise through the timber that halted suddenly at its famous rock cliff. The cliff faced south-southwest, with a sheer drop to a small cove, and offered visitors a magnificent view of Iowa to the west, the lock and dam leading to pool fourteen to the south and, in the distance on a clear day, the Quad cities of Illinois and Iowa. The wide southern bottom of the island, the pin's base, dropped to low-land and was taken up almost entirely with dense woods dotted by tiny clearings and threaded with nature trails. At the southeast tip of the island was another, smaller cove, well-hidden by nature. None entered it and few spoke of it except, of course, Harry Towers.

Towers had led the Reverend Snow down one of the many paths and well into the thick of the south timber. He'd filled the poor man in on the park facilities history, flora, fauna, available menu, rules, including the in-season operating hours of the museum, and had now moved on to gossip. At no time during the walking tour did the park authority let the minister get a word in. “You know, Father,” Towers was just then saying, “I don't mean to be a babbling idiot.”

“Excuse me?” Snow asked, taken aback. “Oh, and please, I'm not–”